


Vortex

by xanthippe74



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror Harry Potter, Azkaban, Down and Out Draco Malfoy, Knockturn Alley, M/M, Non-graphic off-screen injury, POV Draco Malfoy, Past medical abuse (over-prescription of Calming Draught), Poverty, Redemption, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, brief mention of past self-harm, brief mention of past suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22280269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xanthippe74/pseuds/xanthippe74
Summary: “Don’t worry, my dearest one,” Draco’s mother told him when he confided his worries to her. When he was old enough to feel the pangs of adolescent longing, but still too young to sense the storm gathering around them. “Magic will overcome any distance or obstacles to bring two soulmates together when the time is right. Circumstances will arise that steer them in the right direction; strange coincidences will make their paths cross again and again. Then the most wondrous moment arrives, when you both realize that your soulmate, your perfect match, stands before you, and from that day forward your hearts will be one.”Ten years after that conversation, the idea of perfectly-matched soulmates feels more like a curse than a blessing to Draco. Who would want a soulmate who was a schoolyard bully, a Death Eater, and a convicted felon? Certainly not Harry Potter. And Draco is determined to take this secret to the grave.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 339
Kudos: 2822





	Vortex

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place over the course of 4+ years. The time skips are quite large at the beginning, so please pay attention to the dates! See endnotes for more info regarding the timeline.
> 
> Content warnings for brief mentions of a past suicide attempt, past self-harm, past deliberate over-prescription of meds by a Healer, and a non-graphic off-screen injury.
> 
> Many, many thanks to AhaMarimbas for her eagle-eyed beta skills and encouraging feedback.

**Saturday, 13 January 2001**

The first time that Draco sees Harry Potter after the war, he’s huddled against the wall in the exercise yard at Azkaban, shivering in his grey prison robes with his hands pushed into the opposite sleeves and the hood pulled low over his shorn head.

It’s a day that’s much like the endless string of days preceding it. Draco is enduring the daily hour outside in his usual stupor, his mind dulled by silence and monotony, colourless stone and steely sky, and the doses of Calming Draught that are too high for his thin body. Despite the temperature charms and wards that shield the yard from the elements, the air is achingly raw and damp and tastes of salt, as if the spectre of the sea is drifting among prisoners to drink the warmth from their bodies.

Braced against the cold wall, he makes sure to watch the grey figures of the other inmates moving around the yard. They aren’t the most dangerous residents in Azkaban; Draco is fortunate enough not to be housed with the worst offenders, including his own father. Draco stopped thinking about Lucius a long time ago.

Still, he needs to stay vigilant out here, never drawing attention to himself or making eye contact with anyone, including the guards. It’s always a relief to be locked back into his tiny cell again, where he can crawl beneath his blanket and let go of what little alertness he’s able to muster these days. The time goes by faster that way.

A flash of colour catches Draco’s eyes, as bright as fireworks in the night sky to someone accustomed to seeing only shades of grey. It takes a few moments for his sluggish memory to find its way to the word _red_ and even longer to refine that to _maroon_. Trainee Aurors, standing in a tight cluster near the door. The other inmates are now as still and silent as Draco and the sounds of their murmured conversations and scuffling footsteps have been replaced by the Warden’s booming voice.

Draco doesn’t bother to listen. He hunches his shoulders and stares at the chipped slate six inches in front of his feet. While he waits for the group to leave, he counts his own quiet breaths, just as he always does when something threatens the fragile peace of his half-drugged days—fights in the canteen, taunts from the guards, monthly medical exams in the Infirmary. It’s a valuable skill to have here, the ability to be as quiet and motionless as a prey animal waiting for danger to pass.

The Warden’s lecture finally ends, much to Draco’s relief, but then another voice calls out a question, echoing off the stone walls.

A familiar voice. One that sends a painful jolt coursing through Draco’s chest and makes him gasp softly.

_No. Not him._

He raises his eyes just enough to see the dishevelled, black hair near the front of the group of Trainees. He’s facing away from Draco, giving him time to steady himself and will his knees not to give way.

 _Go away, go away, go away,_ Draco thinks desperately.

He fights the urge to lift his hand to the place on his back where a small, brown mark shaped like a Snitch missing one wing mars the pale skin, two inches below his right shoulder. Draco tucks his chin as low as he can and tries to banish the memory of the matching mark that he saw on another shoulder, only once, when the sun slanted through the broken windows of the Great Hall and his robes still smelled of Fiendfyre.

The same black wave of despair that overwhelmed him on that long-ago morning threatens to swallow Draco again now. His arms begin to go numb and his chest feels too tight. Every second feels like an hour as he struggles to draw air into his lungs.

“Malfoy!”

Draco cries out when he hears the voice just feet away. His body pitches to the side and he feels a strong hand close around his bicep to haul him back upright. He squeezes his eyes shut in terror and hears a whimpering that can only be coming from his own mouth.

“Malfoy, what’s the matter with you? Do you need to go to the Infirmary?”

It’s not _his_ voice.

Draco opens his eyes and sees that the Warden and Trainee Aurors have left the yard, and he almost collapses with relief. The guard holding his arm is frowning at him. Draco shakes his head and manages to pull away with a shaky inhale to catch his breath.

The guard turns away and calls for the inmates to line up to be led back to the cell block. Still reeling, Draco stumbles across the yard and tries not to look at the place where _he_ was standing. For a few brief minutes, only thirty feet of cold, empty air separated them. So very close…

 _No,_ Draco orders himself. _Don’t think about it. Just forget. It’s better to forget._

When he’s back in his cell, he lies on his bed and stares at the crack running diagonally across the opposite wall, willing his mind to stay as blank as the dull sky that he only sees for one hour each day.

Later, much later, Draco will wonder if it was a dream or if Harry Potter really did come to Azkaban.

**Sunday, 15 September 2002**

The second time Draco sees Harry Potter, he’s stepping out of the Owl Post Office in Diagon Alley after sending a letter to his mother in France. Even before his eyes can readjust to the bright light, Draco recognises him. Recognises his posture, his silhouette, or something intangible that Draco’s brain has kept tucked away like a precious trinket carried through the wasteland of the past four years.

Draco pauses, cursing his luck and lack of forethought. He should have found a cloak or some hooded robes to hide his face, but the distance between the entrance to Knockturn Alley and the Post Office is only a handful of yards and he foolishly thought he could slip through the weekend crowds unnoticed. It’s too late now. He looks away from Potter, heart pounding, and lets the door swing closed behind him with a bang.

The sound draws the attention of Potter’s companion.

“Oi, Malfoy. Go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under,” Weasley calls out.

Draco wants to flee, but his legs won’t obey. He slowly turns his head, unable to resist. _Weak._

Their eyes don’t meet at first. Potter is looking down at Draco’s body with an expression of mild shock. Draco knows how gaunt he is, how his second-hand clothes hang loosely on his hunched frame. It’s only been two months since his release from Azkaban, not nearly enough time to undo the deprivations there. Potter’s gaze on him feels like being stripped bare, but Draco can’t bring himself to turn away from it, not yet.

_There._

Now Potter is looking at Draco’s face. He feels the thrill of the connection run down his spine, making him shiver. Does Potter feel it too, Draco wonders. Does he feel the thread of magic that links them, or is the mere knowledge of it making Draco imagine things?

Potter pivots abruptly and begins to walk away, mumbling something to Weasley, who follows his best mate like a dog on a lead. Weasley throws one last scowl over his shoulder, but Draco barely notices. His eyes are fixed on Potter’s back, drinking in the sight of him for the last few seconds it takes for the pair to disappear into the crowd.

“You heard ‘im. Get outta here, you scum.”

Draco flinches. Without looking up at the man who shouted at him, he rushes across the street like a startled rabbit, through the wrought-iron archway that marks the beginning of Knockturn Alley. He’s safer here, ironically, than he is among the reputable families and shopkeepers of Diagon, who would be only too happy to hex a former Death Eater who dared show his face there.

The Alley twists between dilapidated wooden buildings, whose upper storeys extend over the street and block most of the sunlight. Draco hurries toward his boarding house, weaving between the clusters of people who are walking more slowly. Sunday mornings here are a shabbier, more subdued echo of Diagon, with families shopping and stopping to chat with friends. The mood is grimmer, though, as poverty weighs heavily on most of the residents. There won’t be ice cream or a new toy for the children here to look forward to, just the pinched expressions of their parents while they calculate how far they can stretch their meagre handfuls of Sickles and Knuts.

Draco’s boarding house comes into view and he almost stumbles in his haste to reach it. He taps on the peeling green door with his Ministry-issued wand. His probation officer handed it to him grudgingly after his release, making it clear that he thought Draco shouldn’t be trusted with a wand, even one that could only cast the most basic of spells. Despite having the same core as his hawthorn wand, it makes Draco’s magic feel as slow and heavy as poured treacle and he dislikes using it.

He’s breathless when he reaches the attic bedsit at the top of three rickety flights of stairs. Four years of near inactivity have taken their toll on his muscles. Draco sits on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes, then curls up on his side facing the grimy dormer window. Two months on and he still marvels at the blue sky, at the small patch of sunlight that falls on the floor in the late afternoon, at the freedom to open the window and lean out far enough to see the steep rooftops of the neighbouring buildings.

Today, however, he’s blind to the room around him, his mind still clinging to the images from earlier. A red tartan button-down shirt, blue denim trousers, Muggle trainers. Black hair tamed into a shorter haircut that probably conforms to the rules for Aurors, and oval glasses instead of round. But the vivid green eyes were the same when they met Draco’s, narrowing with distaste just before he turned away. The memory of that look feels like another slash across Draco’s chest.

_You already knew, you fool. You knew he would never want you._

Draco closes his eyes and imagines himself in his cell in Azkaban. Grey, silent, safe. It’s not the first time that he’s calmed himself this way when he felt overwhelmed. He’s still adjusting to the sensory overload of the world, and the lack of Calming Draughts doesn’t make it any easier. The Mediwitch employed by Magical Law Enforcement to examine prisoners upon their release was so appalled by the dosage he was taking that she sent him to Saint Mungo’s to be weaned off the potion gradually. The Healer there wasn’t the least sympathetic and demanded to know why Draco was taking so much. As if Draco was given any say in the matter.

 _“We can’t have you dodging your punishment, now can we?”_ the Azkaban Healer told Draco after he landed himself in the Infirmary for the second time. _“You have to stay alive and do your time like everyone else here.”_

Merlin knows where the Ministry found that quack. What reputable Healer would choose to work on a barren rock in the North Sea treating criminals? He must have known that people build up a tolerance for Calming Draughts and that the dose that he was giving Draco at the end of his sentence was nearly toxic. Still, Draco doesn’t bear him much ill will, no matter how callously he treated his patients. Enduring four years in Azkaban with his wits about him would have been impossible.

Draco sits up and reminds himself that chapter of his life is over. Even if it’s difficult right now to think beyond the current day, he has things for which he’s grateful. He has his job at the Potions supply shop, a roof over his head, and a wand. He’ll find a way to see his mother when his probation ends next summer. He’s going to stay out of Diagon if he can and keep his head down until the magical world beyond Knockturn Alley forgets he ever existed.

One thing in Draco’s future is certain: Harry Potter will never be a part of it.

**Saturday, 27 September 2003**

The third time that Draco sees Harry Potter, he’s catching his breath on the first landing of his boarding house, plastic bags from the Muggle market puddled around his feet. He’s damp from the autumn drizzle and very much looking forward to wrapping his cold hands around a mug of tea. Just as he’s about to pick up his bags and trudge up the remaining two flights of stairs, _something_ pulls him towards the window to look at the street below.

A pair of red uniforms, moving steadily down the centre of the Alley. Two Aurors, one of whom is instantly recognizable to Draco. He’s walking with his shoulders tensed and his eyes darting between the shops on either side of him. It’s the way that Aurors always carry themselves when on patrol in Knockturn. Draco has seen their hands twitch toward their wand holsters at a sudden movement or loud noise, and he silently prays that their jitteriness doesn’t lead to some child being hexed by accident one day.

So… Potter’s stuck patrolling on a Saturday. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if he volunteered (and congratulated himself for his noble selflessness, the prat), although it’s just as likely that he’s fuming about spending a wet day amongst the wizarding world’s least desirable citizens. He probably thinks such an assignment is beneath his extraordinary and heroic abilities, Draco thinks scathingly.

The moment that the pair step in front of the boarding house, Potter pauses and looks around more urgently, as if he can sense that someone is watching him. Draco stumbles back from the window, his heart leaping in his chest. He remembers sixth year at Hogwarts, when he sometimes felt a prickling on the back of his neck that couldn’t be attributed to a cold draught or the presence of a ghost. Draco shudders, remembering the sensation, and wonders if Potter is experiencing it now.

When Draco leans forward to peek down at the street, the Aurors are gone. He gathers his bags and stomps up the stairs, almost daring his fellow tenants to open their doors to scold him. It’s been a year since he last saw Potter and, after the week that Draco’s just had, it’s truly the last thing that he needs right now.

_Bloody. Fucking. Potter._

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

Once his groceries are put away and his tea is steeping, Draco sinks onto a wooden chair. Rain is seeping through the crevice beneath his windowsill again. He flicks an angry _Impervius_ at it, resisting the contrary impulse to march over to the window and push his fist through one of the panes. Draco takes a deep breath to steady himself, but the indignities of the past few days are rising to the surface of his mind like Inferi through icy waters.

On Tuesday, he mustered the courage to ask his employer for a raise, citing his meticulous work and reliability at the Potions supply shop. Wharton immediately shot him down, reminding Draco that he should be grateful to have a job at all _considering his circumstances_ and adding that he was free to look elsewhere if he was dissatisfied with his pay packet.

Draco wanted to hex the nasty smirk off Wharton’s face, or remind him that he was paying Draco less than he was supposed to. But the bastard knows that the Ministry turns a blind eye to wage law violations committed by employers who hired parolees. What else would motivate them to hire ex-convicts when there was no shortage of job seekers from which to choose?

There was nothing more Draco could say, so he slunk back to his desk and hid his helpless fury under a blank mask of servility.

On Thursday, he read in the Daily Prophet that the rates for Portkeys were to be increased yet again. The writer insinuated that the Ministry bureaucrats had become accustomed to the increased budgets afforded by post-war vault seizures and reparations, and now were loath to trim their bloated salaries. Draco silently agreed and thought with despair of the small purse hidden in his room. He’s been slipping in a few Knuts whenever he can, slowly building his savings. A Portkey to France seems even further from his reach after reading the Prophet story.

Not that the trip was likely, anyways. Draco received a letter from his mother yesterday, relaying—in her delicate and carefully-worded way—that the relatives with whom she lives made it clear to her that Draco isn’t welcome there. He wonders, indifferently, if he has been burned off the family tapestry in Great-Aunt Marie-Célèste’s parlour. The irony that his crimes had been committed out of loyalty to his family is undoubtedly lost on all of them.

Draco feels a twisting in his chest when he thinks of his mother. They write to each other regularly, both of them painting their situations in optimistic and reassuring tones. It’s unlikely that she’s deceived by her son’s supposed “lovely, but compact” flat and “satisfying” job any more than he’s fooled by her “quiet” days and “simple pleasures.” Draco knows his mother must be feeling the humiliating sting of her poverty and imprisoned husband. Reading between the lines of her letters, he has no doubt that their relatives are salting her wounds with frequent recriminations.

He hasn’t told her about Potter. He never will, even if he’s tempted to throw her words back at her on days like today, when he can almost feel the bitterness burning in his throat like wormwood. Draco rises from his chair to get his tea and thinks about that conversation, now ten years in the past, when he was old enough to feel the pangs of adolescent yearning, but still too young to sense the storm gathering around them.

 _“Don’t worry, my dearest one,”_ his mother told him when he confided his worries to her. _“Magic will overcome any distance or obstacles to bring two soulmates together when the time is right. Circumstances will arise that steer them in the right direction; strange coincidences will make their paths cross again and again. Then the most wondrous moment arrives, when you both realise that your soulmate, your perfect match, stands before you, and from that day forward your hearts will be one.”_

Would she stand by her words if she knew the person for whom her son was destined? Would she reassure Draco that fate would find a way for him, no matter how impossible it seemed? Or would she try to console him for his terrible luck? He desperately wants to be consoled, to put his head in her lap and feel her gentle fingers in his hair, as he did when he was younger.

 _You don’t deserve to be comforted,_ Draco reminds himself. He has only himself to blame for both unbearable, interminable separation from his mother and for the inevitable rejection by his soulmate, should Potter ever find out. But there’s nothing Draco can do to change the past, is there? No amount of shame or remorse for his actions can make him worthy of forgiveness. The self-inflicted scars he bears won’t erase the faded Dark Mark on his arm.

Potter will never find out. Draco will take this secret to his lonely grave, wherever it will be. Let Potter spend his life longing for his perfect match; let his hope fade as year after year passes and he’s still alone. Draco has no sympathy for him, surrounded as he is by devoted friends and his surrogate family, while Draco is alone. Beloved by all, while Draco is shunned and despised. No, Harry Potter can go fuck himself.

Draco hurls his mug against the wall.

**Monday, 17 May 2004**

The fourth time that Draco sees Harry Potter, he’s stepping into Wharton’s Potions Supplies just as Draco is emerging from the back room at the sound of the bell.

 _What the hell_ , is Draco’s first thought, as he’s standing dumbstruck and staring. His second thought, or rather sensation, is a cold trickle of fear. He’s learned in the past two years that the weeks around the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts are a dangerous time for an ex-Death Eater. The Aurors assigned to Knockturn give him murderous looks, and Draco is shaken and a bit paranoid about leaving his flat for days after those encounters.

Potter doesn’t look angry now. In fact, he seems just as surprised as Draco. He’s wearing his Auror uniform today, which indicates that he’s here on Ministry business and not to purchase Potions ingredients—which would be absurd, as Potter is as likely to brew his own potions as he is to grow wings. Draco grips the doorframe and tries to recover his powers of speech.

“May I help you?” he asks, at last. They’re the first words he’s spoken to Potter since they faced each other in the Room of Hidden Things.

“I need to speak to the proprietor, Mr. Wharton,” Potter says, fishing a small notebook from his pocket mid-sentence to get the name. “I’m looking for some information about a specific ingredient for a case that I’m investigating.”

“He’s home sick. I doubt he’ll be back this week,” Draco replies. He’s relieved that his voice is reasonably steady. “Is it something I can help with?”

Potter looks torn. His notebook is halfway back to his pocket and his head is turning towards the door when he stops himself. He steps further into the shop with a resolute expression.

“Do you sell Assyrian Dappled Apricot stones?”

“Yes.”

“Have you sold any lately? And if so, can you tell me the quantity and when it was purchased?” Potter demands, his voice automatically shifting into the authoritative tone of his profession.

“I don’t know. I usually work in the back and Mr. Wharton handles the customers. I don’t remember ordering Dappled Apricot stones from our suppliers in quite a long time, though, so if there’s been a purchase lately, it wasn’t a large one that depleted our stock.”

“Are you sure?” Potter asks. “Maybe you didn’t notice that someone bought them recently?”

“I take inventory weekly, but I can show you our current supply and my ledger if you’d like.”

Draco climbs the ladder in front of the wall of wooden drawers, each holding an ingredient. He pulls out the small drawer of Dappled Apricot stones and passes it down to Potter. Their hands come within inches of each other. Draco notices his palms are slick and he makes sure to grip the rungs more tightly as he descends.

“That’s it? This is all you have?” Potter asks, looking into the drawer. There are fewer than ten stones sliding around inside it, each one the size of a marble.

“We don’t have much demand for it. There aren’t many Elephantine Aphid infestations at this time of year, are there?”

“Elephantine _what_?”

“Aphids. They eat magical roses and a solution of powdered Dappled Apricot stone and goat’s milk is an effective repellent. It’s also the only use that I know of for this particular ingredient. Didn’t you do some research about it, if you’re investigating someone who used it?”

“Yes! But I didn’t find that,” Potter says defensively. “I was looking for uses in medical potions. I didn’t consider… household ones.”

He’s glaring at the stones as if they’re to blame for his lack of Potions knowledge, and a flush colours his cheeks. Draco feels an unexpected—and unwelcome—rush of fondness. He hurries to the back room to fetch his ledger.

Just as Draco remembers, it’s been fifteen months since he last ordered Assyrian Dappled Apricot stones. There’s also a note saying that the order was necessary because Draco discovered that their entire supply of the seeds had become mouldy. Of the twelve stones ordered, eight remain in stock.

“Four stones sold over the course of fifteen months is hardly enough to be suspicious,” Potter muses, rubbing the back of his neck. “Certainly not enough to reach the level of toxicity in the… er, that we’re seeing.”

Draco understands the urgency of the case now—and why Potter would agree to speak with him rather than waiting for Wharton to return. Dappled Apricot stones, like many other fruit seeds both magical and non-magical, are a natural source of cyanide. A potions ring, Draco speculates, or maybe a serial murderer… whose _modus operandi_ was inspired by his love of magical roses.

Potter hands the wooden drawer back to Draco with a curt nod.

“Thank you for your assistance,” he says stiffly.

“Of course.”

Before Draco can offer to answer any other questions, Potter stalks towards the door and is gone. Draco sets the drawer next to the till and lets the minutes tick by in the silent shop while he recovers from the unexpected encounter.

When his heart finally catches up with the situation, Draco suddenly feels hollowed out and weak-limbed. _Potter was here. He spoke to me. He looked at me._

He returns to the back room and slumps over his desk, chin resting on his crossed forearms, indulging in idleness that he would never dare if his employer were present. An hour undisturbed by customers allows Draco’s mind to linger on a red uniform stretched across strong shoulders, bitten-off fingernails, and that sudden blush.

Their meeting haunts Draco for days, and when he overhears a customer asking Wharton for Assyrian Dappled Apricot stones two weeks later, he almost jumps up from his seat. He finds an excuse to go out to the shop to get a good look at the man, who—thankfully— is too intent on watching Wharton climb the ladder to notice Draco.

Draco owls a note to Potter, wrapped around a vial containing a Pensieve memory of the customer. He receives a reply on a torn scrap of parchment with only the words _THANK YOU_ , underlined twice.

The Daily Prophet reports an arrest in a string of poisonings soon after.

**Friday, 8 October 2004**

The fifth time that Draco sees Harry Potter, he’s being led by two Aurors to an interrogation room.

They were waiting for Draco in front of his boarding house when he came home from work and demanded that he accompany them to the Ministry to answer some questions relating to a case. Draco could only nod, even though his heart felt like it would pound its way out of his chest. His last thought before one of the Aurors gripped his shoulder for Side-Along Apparition was that he hoped one of his neighbours witnessed the scene and would tell his landlord or Wharton. In case he doesn’t come back.

As he’s being led past the mostly empty desks of the bullpen, Draco sees an Auror stand abruptly from the corner of his eye. It’s Potter, watching the scene with concern.

Draco feels his distress double at the sight of him and he locks his jaw tightly to stop himself from calling out to Potter. He _needs_ to tell him that he didn’t do anything wrong, that this is a mistake. Potter narrows his eyes at his colleagues, a look that Draco recognises from their school years as _suspicion_ , and he feels slightly reassured. He keeps his eyes locked on Potter until the Aurors lead him around a corner and into a room with a small table and two chairs.

One of the Aurors gestures for Draco to sit. He lowers himself slowly onto the chair and tries to slow his breathing. Appearing upset won’t help him here if Aurors are anything like the guards at Azkaban. Somehow, knowing that Potter is nearby steadies Draco, a ballast to counteract the waves of fear.

“I’d like a solicitor,” Draco says, just as the taller Auror is about to speak.

They don’t try to hide their annoyance at Draco’s request, or that he preempted them.

“You’re not under arrest. We just want to ask you a few questions,” the shorter one says, attempting to sound casual.

Draco isn’t fooled. They wouldn’t have hauled him in here if they didn’t suspect him of being involved in a case. He’s not here as a witness or a source of information.

“I won’t answer any questions without a solicitor present,” Draco repeats firmly.

The Aurors exchange a look. The taller man sits across the table from Draco and crosses his arms over his chest. A smug smile spreads across his stubbled face.

“Do you have a solicitor, _Malfoy?_ Shall we contact him for you?”  
  
“No, but I believe that the Ministry is required to provide one for me.”

“Well, that is true.” The smile slowly widens, like a spilled, toxic liquid spreading on a table. “But it’s after five o’clock on a Friday and I’m afraid all of the Legal Aid solicitors down in Magical Law Enforcement have left. Unless you want to spend the weekend with us, I suggest you answer our questions.”

“Our cells are _almost_ as nice as the ones in Azkaban,” the other Auror chimes in.

Draco’s body turns cold, as if he fell into an icy lake. The thought of going back into a cell, of hearing the clang of the door latching behind him, trapping him with Merlin knows what miscreants the Aurors are holding… Draco closes his eyes and pushes back the rising floodwaters of panic.

“You can’t hold me that long without arresting me. I know that,” Draco says breathlessly.

“We’ll see,” one of the Auror growls. When Draco opens his eyes, they’re walking out the door. “Stay right here,” the tall one says over his shoulder, then slams the door behind him.

Draco slides down in the chair and pushes the heels of his palms against his eyes.

_Fuck._

He runs through the mental list of people he knows. If the Aurors are going to hold him, maybe they’ll allow him to contact someone. He doubts that Wharton gives a shit about him, but there are others… Naia’s parents, perhaps.

Draco’s been tutoring several students since the summer. Naia was the first and soon her parents recommended Draco to another family with two primary school-age children. He teaches them for a few hours on Saturdays in an empty room above the bakery that Naia’s parents own, the smells of yeasty dough and crusty bread rising through the floor. It will be mortifying to have to tell them why he’s going to miss the session tomorrow, but at least someone will know where he is.

He has no sense of how much time has passed—he hasn’t dared to draw his wand to cast a _Tempus_ in case he’s being watched through the door with a Transparency Charm—when he hears a woman’s voice, sharp and angry, outside the interrogation room door.

Draco hears, “Ignored several regulations” and “Head Auror” and “If Auror Potter hadn’t firecalled…”

The last words make Draco straighten in his chair, breath catching with hope.

The door opens and a middle-aged witch with tousled brown curls crosses to Draco and offers her hand.

“Angelica Davies, Legal Aid solicitor for the MLE,” she introduces herself. “I’m here to represent you for your questioning.” She takes the second chair and glares at the two Aurors who drifted in behind her.

Draco’s back in his bedsit half an hour later.

He lies awake for a long time that night, hunger gnawing at his stomach—he’d been too shaken to eat dinner—and unanswered questions gnawing at his mind. He’s not thinking about the brief interrogation, which concerned whether Draco knows a Mr. Such-and-Such (he doesn’t) and if he’s been to Newcastle lately (good lord, never).

It’s the thought that Potter may have intervened on his behalf that’s keeping Draco from sleeping. He turns onto his back and looks at the unplastered ceiling above his bed. That Potter might care enough to help him, enough to undermine his own colleagues, is somehow unbearable.

Unbearable, because he knows he’s done nothing to deserve it.

He thinks back to his mother’s words about soulmates’ paths crossing, about fate driving them together. It’s only the second time that Draco’s seen Potter this year and they didn’t even speak today. Draco doesn’t dare believe that he’s any closer to Potter than he was when he stumbled out of the boat from Azkaban over two years ago, half-frozen and disoriented.

Draco slides his hand into the collar of his pyjama top and over his shoulder. He rests his fingertips on his soulmate mark and turns his head toward the window, allowing himself, for once, to think of Potter and all the things that Draco wishes he knew about him. Does he live in London? Alone or with friends? Does he like being an Auror?

Tonight, it’s comforting to think of him, to know that he’s out there. Maybe he’s lying in his bed, too, unable to sleep and thinking of Draco.

**Wednesday, 5 January 2005**

The sixth time that Draco sees Harry Potter, he’s standing in the fiction section of the Islington Waterstones. He startles so badly when he hears his name called that he drops the books he’s holding.

“Malfoy,” Potter says again, moving closer and lowering his voice, “what are you doing here?”

Draco bends down to pick up the books before answering. Of all the places in London that Potter could go on a Wednesday evening…

“Shopping for a book, of course,” he replies. “I don’t suppose you could help me decide between _David Copperfield_ and _Treasure Island_ , can you?”

Potter blinks at him, as if this question confounds him even more than Draco’s presence in a Muggle bookstore. He’s wearing a puffy blue parka and what appears to be a Chudley Cannons scarf, and Draco almost has to look away, his eyes are so offended by the clashing colours.

“Er, no. I haven’t read either. Do you come into… this part of the city often? I just didn’t know that you do that. Not that I think you shouldn’t,” Potter hastens to add when Draco narrows his eyes at him.

“I prefer to shop in _this part of the city_ because I’m less likely to, shall we say, offend someone with my presence than I am in _certain other parts of the city_ ,” Draco says pointedly.

“Oh. Right.” Potter unzips his parka, then waves a hand at the books that Draco’s holding. “And you like to read novels? Really?”

Draco resists the urge to make a sarcastic comment about Potter’s amazing investigative skills. He’s torn between irritation at Potter’s scrutiny and gratitude for his attention. As much as he feels like he should walk away, he can’t pass up the opportunity to pull back the curtain an inch or so and give Potter a glimpse of his life.

“I do read novels, but tonight I’m shopping for a ten-year-old girl that I tutor. She’s quite precocious and I’d like to challenge her with something more advanced.”

“So you help her with her school work, or do you give her extra lessons?” Potter asks, tilting his head slightly.

“The children in Knockturn don’t go to school,” Draco explains softly. No one else is nearby, but he’d rather not come within a mile of breaking the Statute of Secrecy in front of an Auror. “Parents teach their children as well as they can, but almost all of them need to work full-time just to get by, and tuition and professional tutors are too expensive. They can manage basic reading and maths, but not much else.”

“But what do they do when they get to Hogwarts?” Potter whispers. “Aren’t they behind?”

“They don’t go to Hogwarts, Potter. Neither did their parents, and maybe even their grandparents,” Draco says flatly.

_“What?”_

“You don’t think they let any child with magic in, do you? Do you remember anyone in our year who was from Knockturn? Or in any other year while we were there? There wasn’t.”

“But that’s not right!” Potter sputters.

Merlin, he looks just like he did when he was a child, outraged by the cancellation of the Quidditch season or an unfair detention, Draco thinks. It’s almost endearing now.

“I know it isn’t and that’s why I’m tutoring. Naia is a brilliant child—she just about devours any material I give her—and it makes me ill to think that she’ll never have the opportunities that more fortunate children have. She reminds me of Granger, if I’m honest.”

The comparison causes Potter’s expression to shift from righteous anger to distress.

“Oh, god, that’s terrible. Can’t her parents do something?”

“They _are_ doing something. They see Naia’s potential and they want to give her the best chance they can, even if she never gets a Hogwarts letter. That’s why they found someone to tutor her.”

Potter looks down at the books in Draco’s hands.

“Try _Treasure Island_. Kids like adventure stories, right? I think it’s about pirates.” He hesitates, then reaches his hand out. “Will you let me pay for it? I’d really like to.”

“It’s a gift. From me,” Draco says, pulling the book (and his own hand) away. “Thank you, that’s kind of you to offer.”

Potter pushes his hands into the pockets of his parka. He looks around the bookstore but doesn’t move, as if _something_ is making it difficult for him to pull himself away.

Draco tucks the Dickens book back into place on the shelf. He doesn’t want to leave either, even though there’s no conceivable reason for him to linger now that he has his book. He wants to ask Potter about that day in the Auror department, but he’s afraid that Potter will deny helping him.

“Are you shopping for something, yourself?” he ventures.

“Not exactly,” Potter shrugs, still looking away from Draco. “I was just taking a walk after dinner and I thought I’d come in and browse. I don’t really have time to read, but I was walking past and I...”

A slight frown appears on his face, as if he’s at a loss to explain his impulse. Draco feels a thrill run down the hairs on his arms.

_Paths crossing again and again._

_Oh, my god._

“I need to get home,” Draco says quickly. “Goodnight, Potter.”

He only waits long enough for Potter to reply, then moves briskly toward the tills, gripping the book tightly to keep his hands from shaking. He doesn’t look back before he steps back into the cold night, but Draco can feel Potter’s eyes watching.

He walks faster than necessary toward Knockturn Alley, hoping to burn off some of the adrenaline that’s making him feel like he wants to crawl out of his skin. The shops and parks are still decorated for Christmas, and Draco’s been taking walks almost every evening for the past month to enjoy the lights and colourful window displays. They’re nothing like the subdued and tasteful Yule decorations at the Manor.

Tonight Draco wants to shut out all the bright colours and noise of the city. He needs to be someplace quiet where he can sort out why he feels panicked, even now that he’s put some distance between himself and Potter. He lengthens his stride and keeps his gaze locked on the pavement in front of him, pushing himself to move faster.

When his lungs are burning from the cold, Draco sits on a bench to catch his breath. This encounter with Potter is different than their previous ones over the past few years. There was no reason for Draco to go to the Islington Waterstones tonight instead of the larger store on Tottenham Court Road. There was no reason for Potter to go there at all. And yet they were both drawn there, like two ships pulled into a maelstrom.

Draco shivers, despite feeling hot beneath his wool coat. He feels out of control, and it’s not dissimilar to the way he felt after his father’s first arrest and Voldemort’s occupation of the Manor. He feels the same urge to hide, the same sense of imminent catastrophe. Draco stands and begins to walk, more slowly now, toward Knockturn Alley.

If he and Potter are both caught up in the same whirlpool, it’s only a matter of time until they collide. And Draco has no doubt that he’s the one who will sink to the bottom.

**Tuesday, 1 March 2005**

The seventh time that Draco sees Harry Potter, he’s sitting in a Muggle coffee shop at half-past five in the evening with a paper cup of weak tea, enduring Hermione Granger-Weasley’s skeptical gaze. Potter seems to be here merely as a chaperone, since he’s leaving the talking to Granger.

“I’ve been asking around the Ministry about primary education,” Granger says. She’s sitting straight-backed with her hands folded on the table, as if she’s in a department meeting instead of a poorly-lit Starbucks. “It’s rather shocking that they don’t even have any guidelines or curricula suggestions for parents who can’t afford tutors or tuition at a school. Everyone seems to think that the status quo is perfectly acceptable, even if it means that there’s an enormous range in the quality of education that children receive. No one I spoke to was the least bit concerned about children from Knockturn Alley.”

“I’m not surprised. Knockturn is the rug under which the Ministry sweeps all of the magical world’s problems, and they would rather no one shine a light under there,” Draco replies.

“What do you mean?” Granger demands. “What are they trying to hide?”

“Anything that contradicts the image of order and prosperity that the Ministry wants to maintain. Anything that would show that they’re not doing a bang-up job and might endanger their jobs or reelection chances. If they can keep most of the suffering conveniently confined in one district, then the rest of the population won’t see it. And if it becomes an accepted belief that the people who live in that district are criminals and dark wizards, then the Ministry is morally justified in ignoring the needs of the people who live there.”

“But there _are_ criminals in Knockturn,” Potter protests. “I do patrol there, you know. There’s a reason why people warn their kids to stay out of there.”

“Of course there are criminals, because they’re desperate and there are only so many jobs available for people without a proper education. But the vast majority of people living in Knockturn Alley aren’t breaking the law. They’re just trapped in a cycle that they’ll never break free of, that their children will never break free of. If the Ministry were to acknowledge that, they would also have to admit that they’ve failed a significant portion of their citizens on a multitude of other issues besides primary school education.”

“What issues?” Granger asks, crossing her arms across her chest. She’s wearing the same stubborn expression that Draco remembers from Hogwarts, the one said that she was ready to take on anyone willing to challenge her, be it in a heated discussion in Ancient Runes or a war of words between Gryffindors and Slytherins in the corridor.

“Unsafe housing conditions, human trafficking, wage and child labour law violations by business owners, black markets for medicines and unlicenced Healers who charge exorbitant fees,” Draco says, ticking them off on his fingers.

“Saint Mungo’s treats people for free. Why would they go to an unlicensed Healer?” Granger asks, leaning forward.

“They’re _supposed_ to treat anyone, but they have ways of discouraging people that they consider _undesirable_ from seeking treatment there. For example, they can keep people in the waiting room so long that they give up and leave, or they can tell people that there are no appointments available,” Draco explains. “They usually won’t turn away children, but adults often have to go elsewhere for potions and treatment.”

Draco turns his eyes to Potter. He’s listening with obvious sympathy and concern now, and Draco feels his cheeks warming at his own fervour for this subject.

“You seem to have a lot of opinions about the unfairness of conditions in Knockturn Alley for someone raised in an enormous manor with servants,” Granger observes caustically.

“The past three years living there have certainly opened my eyes. On many things,” Draco adds, glancing at Potter again. He hopes that their brief conversation in Waterstones was enough to convince Potter that he’s a different person now. “I assumed that you were interested in my opinion, since you owled me to arrange this meeting.”

“Yes,” Granger concedes, “I’d like to hear your thoughts about pushing the Ministry to establish a primary school in Knockturn, so that the children there can be on a more level playing field as their peers and hopefully be accepted to Hogwarts.”

“It would be political suicide for anyone at the Ministry who proposes that.” Draco holds up his hands when Granger starts to object. “It would be seen as rewarding people who are undeserving—yes, even if they’re only small children—or taking funding away from other programmes. Or there would be demands for government-run primary schools for _all_ families, not just the ones in Knockturn. And, as you said, there’s not much interest at the Ministry in doing that, so the end result would be no schools at all.”

Granger frowns and shakes her head, and Draco senses that she’s frustrated that she can’t immediately think of a counterargument. He sips his lukewarm tea and considers the idea further.

“Even if you could persuade the Ministry to fund a school, families in Knockturn would be wary of it. There’s understandably a great deal of mistrust of the Ministry and parents would be suspicious of their motives.”

“How convenient that you should step in and offer yourself as a tutor, then,” Granger snaps. “What a clever way to profit from the misfortune of children.”

“ _I do not charge them one Knut_ , Granger, and I buy the books I use at my own expense,” Draco says icily. “The only things I receive in return for my work are small gifts given to me out of gratitude—a loaf of bread or a handmade scarf, for example—which I neither expect nor demand.”

“Hermione,” Potter murmurs, levelling a disapproving frown at his friend.

“All right, fine. I take that back.” Granger glances at her wristwatch, then begins to rebutton her coat. “We need to go, Harry.”

“It’s Ron’s birthday,” Potter explains. “We’re meeting him for dinner in a bit.”

“Ah, many happy returns of the day to him, then,” Draco replies graciously.

“Shall I pass your birthday wishes along to him?” Potter asks with a cheeky grin.

“Certainly. He’ll be so pleased, I’m sure.”

Draco suppresses a smile, but he can’t stop the pleasure that’s welling up, warm and sparkling, in his chest. He forgets himself for a few moments and keeps his eyes locked with Potter’s, so green and bright with amusement. The spell is broken by Granger’s voice.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” she says, “even if I feel like I’m back to square one.”

“I appreciate you taking an interest,” Draco replies, turning his attention back to her. “I’d be happy to hear any other ideas you have, if you think of any.”

They part outside the door, with a murmured goodnight from Granger and a firm—and completely unexpected—handshake from Potter. Draco’s heart is in his throat, and he can’t manage a proper farewell before Potter turns away to follow Granger down the pavement.

Hours later, Draco can still feel Potter’s rough palm against his own, and he lies awake late into the night imagining what those hands would feel like running over his shoulders, his back. When he finally falls asleep, Draco has the sweetest dreams he’s had in years.

**Monday, 4 April 2005**

It’s one thing to anticipate running into Potter in Knockturn Alley or Muggle London again. Draco’s been watching for him everywhere he goes for the past month, no matter how unlikely the place. He almost plowed into a woman in Sainsbury’s with his trolley because he was scanning the faces in the queues instead of watching where he was going.

Still, nothing can prepare him for answering a knock on his door one evening to find Potter in the corridor, looking out of place and more than a little sheepish. He probably peeked into Draco’s probation file to get his address.

“Potter.”

“Malfoy.”

After a few moments of silence, Draco realises that Potter is waiting to be invited in. He closes the door enough so that his body blocks any view of the room behind him. It’s painful enough to have Potter see him in his menial job or his second-hand, frayed-at-the-cuffs coat. Let Potter think he’s being rude or dodgy, Draco is _not_ going to let Potter see how he lives.

“I’m sorry I didn’t owl ahead,” Potter says at last. “I wanted to give you an update about the school and I thought I’d tell you in person. I hope you don’t mind…”

“It’s fine,” Draco interrupts. He stays planted in the doorway. He considers suggesting they go someplace else to discuss this, but decides that being seen walking through Knockturn together is an even worse scenario than having this stilted conversation in his boarding house corridor. Draco winces. Good grief, it smells like someone’s been boiling enough cabbage to feed the entire Alley.

“May I come in, just for a minute?” Potter asks.

Merlin, the man can’t take a hint. Draco braces himself for the humiliation he’s about to endure and steps backwards into his room.

Potter follows and Draco hears the door close. He’s already turned away, unwilling to see Potter’s expression when he takes in Draco’s quarters.

“Malfoy,” Potter murmurs. Draco can tell that he’s faintly horrified.

“Don’t. Just _don’t_ , Potter. I made my bed and now I’m lying in it. Without complaint.”

Draco gestures toward the lone chair and sits on the edge of his bed, steeling himself to look at Potter. He’s taking in the crumbling plaster and battered furniture, the drafty window and the threadbare bedclothes. His eyes linger on the shelf where Draco stacks his instant noodles and tins of beans, then he darts a glance at Draco’s thin body.

Draco feels his face warming. He’s grown accustomed to his new circumstances, has accepted them humbly rather than thinking of them as an extension of his punishment. Still, Potter’s obvious dismay makes Draco feel ashamed, as if he should have tried harder to improve his lot. As astounded and pleased as he is that Potter came to see him, he’s now eager to get this visit over with.

“So, the school?”

“Oh, yeah,” Potter says, pivoting to face Draco. “Hermione spoke with Professor McGonagall, and they’re talking about creating a non-profit organisation to start a school with private donations. Hogwarts might be able to provide some funding, too, if the Board of Governors approves.”

“Do you think they’ll really see it through? It’s an enormous undertaking, and I’m sure they’re both very busy.”

“They’re two very determined witches,” Potter smiles, “especially when they find something they want to fix.”

“I’m grateful that she wants to remedy the situation now, but surely McGonagall has noticed that children from Knockturn weren’t getting letters. She was Deputy Headmistress long before we went to Hogwarts.”

“Maybe she didn’t know that there are children here,” Potter says, bristling in defence of his former Head of House. “It never occurred to _me_ that there were families choosing to live in Knockturn Alley, of all places, before I started patrolling it.”

“They don’t live here by choice, Potter. Even Naia’s parents, who run a successful bakery, can’t afford to rent in Diagon, much less buy a house of their own. It’s appalling that this has gone unnoticed for decades.”

Draco knows he shouldn’t start a row with Potter, but he’s fed up with the sanctimonious and uninformed opinions about Knockturn Alley that the powerful people in the wizarding world cling to.

“You would think that the Ministry would take more of an interest in improving things here, given what happened during the war,” Draco continues. “You would think they would want to prevent a similar situation from occurring again.”

“What situation? What are you talking about?” Potter’s in full Gryffindor mode now, raising his voice and curling his hands into fists.

“Where do you think the Snatchers were recruited? If you need your dirty work done, you find people who are dissatisfied or desperate.”

“Of course they looked in Knockturn,” Potter counters. “Where else can you find a bunch of wizards willing to do something so awful? No honourable witch or wizard would volunteer to hunt Muggleborns like animals. They murdered your uncle, if you recall.”

Draco closes his eyes. He was home for Christmas hols when they heard the news of Ted Tonks’ death. He remembers the way that Bellatrix laughed, while his mother shook her head and looked nauseated. At the time, Draco wished he could shelter her from the atrocities of the war. Now he wishes she had been forced so see them sooner.

“I’m not defending them, Potter. _Merlin!_ I’m just saying that when there’s a group of people who feel marginalized, someone will come along and exploit that discontent for their own ends. It’s not Arithmancy. If the Ministry wants to keep the people in Knockturn from siding with the next monster that comes along, they should really take a look at the circumstances that led to people to become Snatchers. They certainly didn’t give a fuck about blood supremacy.”

“I thought you said that people in Knockturn wouldn’t accept the Ministry’s help. What are they supposed to do, if people here don’t trust them?”

“That’s another problem entirely. We can have that conversation, if you’re inclined to hear about decades of corruption and exploitation of vulnerable people by your Ministry colleagues.”

Potter looks taken aback, but he doesn’t challenge Draco’s statement. Something tells Draco that the rotten bureaucrats and law enforcement officers who managed to hold onto their jobs through Shacklebolt’s postwar purge are already known to Potter. It’s probably something that he and Granger have discussed while they were hashing out which one of them is going to be Minister for Magic.

“Look, I don’t want to argue with you about this,” Draco says. He feels the fight draining out of him and, frankly, being the object of Potter’s ire makes him feel ill. He wishes he could restart this conversation from the beginning. Maybe he could make Potter smile at him again, the way he did in the coffee shop.

“Yeah, all right.” Potter replies, relaxing his posture. “I know the problems here won’t be solved with just one school. You’ve really opened my eyes, you know, and I’m going to try to help. And so are Hermione and McGonagall.”

“I do appreciate it, truly, and I think it’s a good plan. I think the families here will be receptive to the idea, especially if they can be involved in establishing the school. Will you tell them that?”

“Yeah, I can do that.” Potter rises from the chair and looks around Draco’s room again. He hesitates and looks at Draco with concern. “Are you... doing all right?”

“Yes, Potter, I’m doing fine.”

Even if he weren’t fine, Draco would never tell Potter.

“Look,” Potter says, averting his eyes from Draco’s and raising a hand to rub the back of his neck, “if you ever need something, will you ask me? Instead of doing something… illegal?”

Draco inhales sharply at the implication. “ _Potter._ I would never do _anything_ that might get me sent back to Azkaban. I would rather die than go back there,” he says as fiercely as he can, but he can hear his voice shaking.

“Okay, okay. I just wanted you to know that I’d want to help, if you needed it. I owe your mother a Life-Debt, you know.”

Draco knows, but the thought that Potter would help him to repay a debt to his mother, and not for Draco’s own sake, is another punch in the gut.

“Is she well?” Potter asks, as if making polite small talk can smooth things over after he suggested that Draco might turn to a _life of crime_. “Do you get to see her much?”

Draco wraps his arms around himself, curling around seven years of grief.

“I haven’t seen my mother since the morning after the battle,” he says.

“Oh,” Potter says softly. “I’m sorry to bring it up.”

“It’s hard to talk about,” Draco says, squeezing his eyes shut. He feels tears welling up in his eyes. “Would you mind…”

“Right, I’ll be going,” Potter says. “See you, Malfoy.”

Draco nods, and then Potter is gone.

**Monday, 25 April 2005**

Fate and soulmate bonds be damned, Draco needs a break.

It’s been three weeks since Potter came to his room and Draco has spent every day dreading their next encounter, wondering how he’ll face Potter after their disastrous conversation. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to refuse Potter’s invitation to meet him at a coffee shop not far from the Islington Waterstones. The pull is too strong.

“Thank you for coming. I know I picked a miserable night for it,” Potter says, as Draco takes off his wet coat and slides into the booth across from him.

He’s speaking gently, as if he’s now convinced that Draco is _fragile_ just because he misses his mother and subsists on cheap Muggle noodles. And he bought Draco an absurdly large hot chocolate, apparently. It’s sitting on Draco’s side of the table, topped with a veritable mountain of whipped cream. Potter chose coffee for himself. There are four or five empty paper sugar packets next to his cup.

“It’s no trouble. I assume you wanted to update me about the school?”

“Yeah,” Potter says. “It’s coming together pretty quickly. They think they’ll be able to open in September. Hermione’s already talking about finding a building and advertising for teachers.”

“That soon? How did she raise funds so quickly? Are the parents going to have input?”

“Yes, Hermione has enough funds to get it started,” Potter says, glancing away. “It’s going to be just the youngest students at first, probably five- to eight-year-olds, then they can add more teachers as those students get older. Professor McGonagall is going to arrange a meeting for interested families next month. She agrees that the community should consider this _their_ school, and that their involvement is vital.”

“That’s good. I’m certain there’ll be a good turnout. I only tutor three students, but I’ve been approached by several other parents as well.”

“If Professor McGonagall is in charge, I think people can be sure that their kids are in good hands. That’s for you, by the way,” Potter says, waving his hand towards the hot chocolate.

“I gathered, thank you. It looks delicious. I might need to ask for a spoon, I think,” Draco replies.

Potter immediately fetches one for him, then watches silently while Draco eats spoonfuls of whipped cream. He looks away quickly when he realises that he’s staring at Draco, and occupies himself for several minutes with tearing up the empty sugar packets into smaller pieces instead.

“I also wanted to apologise for showing up at your door uninvited and upsetting you,” Potter says abruptly. “I shouldn’t have intruded like that.”

“It’s all right, truly. I know you just wanted to tell me about the school and I appreciate you keeping me up to date. I tend to get a bit… impassioned when I talk about the injustices in Knockturn, as you must have noticed.”

“I did.”

Draco looks up from his cup and sees Potter trying not to smile. It looks like he’s growing a beard, and the dark hair frames his lips in a way that makes Draco’s mouth go dry.

“It’s very admirable. Almost... Gryffindor-ish,” Potter adds.

“Bite your tongue, Potter.”

Potter laughs, a delighted, burbling laugh that lights up his face. Draco stares helplessly.

He’s beautiful when he laughs.

“I also wanted to give you this,” Potter says, twisting sideways in the booth to pull a tiny envelope from the back pocket of his trousers. “So you can get more books for your students.”

Draco reaches across the table for the envelope and opens it to find a Waterstones gift card. For £300. He stares at it for a few moments, taken aback by Potter’s generosity.

“Thank you,” he manages to say. He’s at a loss for words beyond that, so he gives Potter a wobbly smile that he hopes conveys his gratitude. Salazar, he’s going to be able to buy Naia a small library of her own.

“I suspect you’ve been buying books with money that you should be spending on yourself,” Potter says quietly.

Draco tucks the gift card into his coat pocket and picks up his cup. He tilts it back and forth and watches the remaining cocoa swirl in the bottom.

“I suspect _you_ tracked down Ms. Davies from Legal Aid when I was brought in for questioning last autumn,” he counters, raising his eyes to meet Potter’s with a pointed look.

“Oh,” Potter says. It’s obvious that he thought Draco didn’t know.

“Thank you for that,” Draco says. “They were threatening to hold me for the weekend.”

“Well, you did help me out on that poisoning case, with that Pensieve memory you sent. It was the break we needed.”

“Can you use Pensieve memories in a court case?” Draco asks. He doubts that anyone at the MLE would consider him a reliable witness. The man’s barrister would have had a field day cross-examining Draco if he’d been called to testify.

“Not as evidence in a trial, but combined with what we dug up in a background check, it was enough to get a search warrant. We found plenty of evidence in his house to charge him.”

“Ah,” Draco says. This conversation is going much better than the last one, so he decides to indulge his curiosity. “Do you enjoy being an Auror?”

“Yes. For the most part.” Potter hesitates, as if he’s weighing whether or not to say more. “The paperwork and bureaucracy are frustrating sometimes. And what you said, about some people at the Auror Department being… well, not as professional as they should be. It’s hard not to be able to do something about that.”

“Can’t you do something? You have Shacklebolt’s ear and he did win reelection on an anti-corruption platform. I doubt anyone would retaliate against you.”

“It’s tricky, you know, me working in the department,” Potter grimaces. “There was a fair amount of resentment when I was allowed to start the training without my NEWTs. I had to promise Robards—the Head Auror—that I wanted to be treated like everyone else. And I’ve never asked for any special privileges or favours. But it would make me very unpopular in the department if I voiced my suspicions about some of my fellow Aurors without evidence to back it up.”

“Do you care?” Draco asks. “I’ve never known you to shy away from calling someone out. Yes, I’m speaking from personal experience here.”

Potter smiles at that, but he shakes his head. “In a job like this, you need to be able to count on people to have your back, one-hundred percent of the time. When someone loses the trust of the rest of the team, it isn’t long before they’re forced to quit. But I do what I can to block someone from doing something that goes against procedure, especially if I can do it without a direct confrontation.”

“Like contacting a Legal Aid solicitor after hours, for example?”

“Yeah, they weren’t happy about that, but I just said I was trying to help them out after I overheard them say that you were asking for a solicitor. A good Junior Auror trying to assist his superiors, right?” Potter grins. “Besides, Angelica told Robards what they did and he hauled them into his office and shouted at them for twenty minutes, so I don’t think they’ll try something like that again soon.”

Draco sighs. He wishes he had Potter’s confidence in the matter. He was more than a little rattled by the experience and looked over his shoulder for weeks afterwards. It’s another reason why he prefers Muggle London when he wants to escape the cramped confines of his room.

“And how about you? Do you like your job?” Potter asks.

“It’s all right. I’m grateful for it, of course, and I’ve always enjoyed Potions so it’s a good fit for my interests. It’s fine,” Draco shrugs. He feels nervous, all of a sudden, and a bit overwhelmed by having Potter’s full attention.

“Do you enjoy teaching? Is it something you’d like to do as a career?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest. I enjoy tutoring and I believe it’s going well, but I think the credit should go to my students’ enthusiasm more than my teaching skills.” Draco looks away from Potter and adds, “As for a career, I’m afraid that’s not possible. My criminal record would prevent me from being hired by any school.”

“Oh, right,” Potter mumbles, as if he forgot about the Erumpent in the room. 

Draco wonders how much longer Potter intends to carry on this conversation; they’re veering close to dangerous waters. He decides it would be safer to cut the evening short rather than court disaster by letting it go on too long.

“Thank you for the hot chocolate. I should be getting home,” Draco says. “And thank you for the gift card, of course. I already have a few books in mind for Naia.”

“You’re very welcome,” Potter replies. He can’t possibly be disappointed that Draco is leaving, yet his shoulders seem to slump slightly. Maybe he’s worried that he upset Draco again by making him bring up his past.

Draco stands and slips his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. He steps closer to Potter and holds out his hand.

“I enjoyed talking with you,” Draco says with a smile. He needs to make sure that Potter knows that he’s okay. That things between them, which are still undefined and probably confusing to Potter, are okay, too.

“Me too,” Potter replies, shaking Draco’s hand. His touch is as electric as the last time, when they had coffee with Granger. It’s hard to hold on and it’s hard to let go.

On the walk home, Draco realises that he’s lost count of how many times their paths have crossed.

It doesn’t matter. He knows they’ll see each other again soon.

**Sunday, 8 May 2005**

When Draco glimpses a pair of red uniforms among the weekend shoppers in Knockturn Alley, fear jolts through his limbs and he frantically tries to calculate if it would be better to duck into a shop or turn around and get back to his room. The seventh anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts was on Monday and, if that isn’t enough to have all the residents of Knockturn Alley on edge, there are rumours of planned raids and sweeps by the Auror Department.

Before he can make a decision about changing course, the Aurors come into view about twenty feet ahead of him. Draco releases the breath he didn’t realise he was holding and continues moving forward. It’s Potter—of course it is—and his partner, strolling among the crowds at an unhurried pace and making an obvious effort to appear friendly. The people they pass don’t seem to know what to make of this change and answer the Aurors’ greetings warily.

Potter notices Draco and his smile widens for a moment before he schools his expression back into something more professional. The few seconds it takes to close the distance between them feel much longer, and neither of them is able to look away.

“Good morning,” Potter says with a nod when they’re close enough.

“Good morning,” Draco replies pleasantly, as if exchanging greetings with Aurors is something he does every day.

And then Potter and his partner stride past him, and Draco feels rather let down that today’s encounter is to be so brief. A glancing blow to Draco’s heart instead of the emotionally-charged collision that he’s come to expect.

He’s only taken a few more steps when a small voice rises over the hum of the conversations around him, calling his name with urgency.

“Draco!” she shouts again, and he sees Naia’s head of black curls hurtling through the crowds. She’s waving something above her head. “Draco, _look!_ ”

She manages to stop just before she barrels into Draco’s chest and holds up a large envelope in front of his face. It’s addressed to her, in emerald green ink on heavy parchment, and he recognises it immediately.

“Naia,” Draco breathes, gently taking the envelope from her hands. “What… _what?_ ” It comes out as a choked laugh, equal parts disbelief and wild joy. He lowers his arm to look at her beaming face, but barely gets a glimpse of it before she launches herself at him and winds her arms around his neck.

“We did it, we did it!” she crows.

“ _You_ did it,” Draco corrects her, then his throat closes up and he can’t speak anymore through his tears. He wants to tell her how proud he is, how brilliant she is, but he settles for wrapping his arms around her tightly and giving her a single spin before setting her down.

“Draco, don’t _cry_!” she admonishes him when she sees his face.

Draco takes his handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his eyes. “I can’t help it, I’m just so happy for you.” He takes a deep breath, then exhales with a shaky laugh. He could weep, he’s so overcome, but Naia would likely be confused if he broke down after hearing her wonderful news.

“Mum says to come to dinner tonight. She’s going to bake an _enormous_ cake and Dad’s going to make my favourite dinner.”

“I’ll be there,” Draco promises, handing back the precious letter. He glances around and sees that the people around them have stopped to watch the scene. Naia notices, too, and raises the envelope above her head with a little dance.

“I’m going to Hogwarts!” she proclaims to the crowd.

She’s immediately surrounded by well-wishers who exclaim their congratulations and reach out to shake her hand. Even one or two shopkeepers are drawn out by the commotion and come over to speak to her. Naia’s the first child from Knockturn to get a Hogwarts letter in decades and the news will be the talk of the Alley today.

Draco steps back from the cluster of people and wipes his eyes one more time. Just before he’s about to continue down the street, he hears his name spoken behind him. He pivots to see Potter standing two yards away, eyes sparkling. It didn’t occur to Draco that he was still nearby and watching.

“Well done,” Potter says softly.

Draco acknowledges the compliment with a watery smile. He watches Potter turn away to follow his partner towards the entrance to Diagon Alley. Draco stays rooted in place, his elation at Naia’s news replaced with wonder.

Potter looked _proud_ of him.

The tiny ember of hope inside him, the one that Draco has stubbornly tried to ignore or deny, bursts into flame.

And for the first time, Draco feels ready to let go of his shame and doubt and let himself burn.

**Monday, 16 May 2005**

Draco stumbles into his room blindly and slams the door behind him before collapsing on his bed. He’s shaking so hard that he can feel the bed frame beneath him rocking slightly on the uneven floor.

_This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening._

Twisting his hands around fistfuls of his blanket, Draco tries to take deeper breaths, but the image of Potter being levitated onto a stretcher, limp and bloody, makes his lungs seize up. He resorts to moving his hands to his hair and gripping it tightly until the pain allows him to relax enough to breathe.

He was walking home, later than usual, after a stroll in the balmy spring evening. No sooner had he slipped through the entrance to Knockturn, hidden in a foul alleyway between two Muggle shops, than he heard shouts echoing down the Alley. The long-anticipated raid was taking place. Draco even guessed the building the Aurors had targeted: a shuttered shop with supposedly-empty flats above it that Knockturn residents whispered was a smuggling den.

Draco approached the area cautiously, hoping he’d be able to slip past instead of going the long way around through the Diagon Alley entrance in order to get to his boarding house. It was immediately obvious that the raid didn’t go as planned. Aurors were clustered in front of the building and the cobblestones were covered with broken glass and shards of wood. Draco saw several wizards bound with _Incarcerous_ spells, but there were almost three times as many wounded Aurors being tended by medics.

Then Draco saw him. _Harry._

He’s not sure how he even made it back to his room. Draco tries to replace the image of Harry wounded with ones from their most recent meetings. Harry laughing in the coffee shop, the light fixture hanging over their booth illuminating his face and creating bright points on the silver rims of his glasses. Harry in his Auror uniform, trying not to smile too much when he spotted Draco in Knockturn last weekend. Harry looking away when asked about the funds raised for the school. Draco would bet his last Knut that Potter’s generosity is enabling plans for the school to move ahead so quickly, even before there’s been any public announcement.

There’s so much that Draco didn’t understand about Harry before—his humility, his playful sense of humour, his genuine compassion for others—and so much more he wants to discover. Maybe he’s always wanted to know Harry, even when they were children. Draco mentally filed away countless details about Harry Potter through their school years, but never discovered the essence of him, the core of his rival; Draco was always trying to fight his way through some invisible barrier with insults and taunts and punches, he realises now, so that he could be someone who truly _knew_ Harry. And be someone who was important to him.

It feels to Draco like he’s being rebuked for allowing himself to dream of… well, things that he knows are in the distant future, but are nonetheless real possibilities now, like silhouettes on the horizon. These past few days, he’s imagined what it would be like to touch Harry, to press their bodies together and inhale the scent of him. He’s permitted himself to feel a longing that would have been unbearable before, when he had no hope that Harry would accept him as his soulmate.

Draco stretches out on his stomach and pushes his face into the blanket, relishing the roughness against his cheek. It would be a cruel twist of fate if he lost Harry now. It’s almost unthinkable that they should come so close, should overcome not only their childhood animosity, but the sheer improbability that their lives would intersect after Draco’s release from Azkaban, only to be thwarted just as the threads of their fates were pulling them together.

He’s reminded of a cone-shaped shell that he found on a French beach when he was a child. Draco’s mother told him that it belonged to a kind of snail that lived in the sea. Nothing lived in that particular shell any longer—the tip was broken off, leaving a hole into which Draco pressed his pinky finger as he sat in the hot sunshine. He lamented to his mother that the shell was imperfect, ruined by some unknown force or collision. Still, he held it for a long time, tracing his fingertip around the spiral from the delicate rim of the opening down to the break, relishing the startling moment when the smooth surface changed to a jagged edge.

He and Harry have nearly completed the winding journey that began seven years ago when Draco discovered that they’re soulmates. He’s certain of it. So much separated them when the journey began, but he sees now that they were circling toward each other all along. So slowly at first as to be imperceptible, then accelerating, drawn together toward the centre of their vortex.

So close to perfect, until the end.

Draco pushes one hand under his chest and counts his heartbeats until he feels calmer and able to think more clearly. He tells himself that Harry may not be as badly injured as he appeared, that he could be home recuperating in his own bed by morning. He’s survived worse than a raid on a Knockturn smuggling operation, surely.

Now that the shock has worn off a bit, Draco feels numb, suspended above his emotions by fragile threads of uncertainty about Harry’s fate. Draco will hear, one way or another, if Harry’s okay, and then he’ll plummet into either blessed relief or unspeakable anguish.

For now, he can only wait.

**Saturday, 21 May 2005**

“Do you have a copy of today’s Prophet?” Draco asks Naia’s mother, Susannah, when he arrives for their tutoring session.

She reaches down to the shelf beneath the till and passes the paper to Draco. “Are you all right, Draco? You look like you’ve seen a Boggart. Do you need some Pepper-Up?”

“I’m not sick, just haven’t been sleeping well. But thank you,” Draco replies, clutching the newspaper against his chest. It’s true that he’s spent the past five nights awake more than asleep, but the yeasty smells around him are also making his stomach lurch unpleasantly. “Can you send Naia up in a few minutes?”

Draco rushes up the stairs to the small room where he tutors his students and sets his satchel on the table. His hands shake as he unfolds the newspaper. He’s been checking every morning for news of Harry, to no avail. There was a brief article about the raid on Tuesday that reported minor injuries, but made no mention of Harry specifically. Draco wants to believe that it means that Harry is fine, yet he can’t shake the dread that’s been gripping him so tightly that it’s hard to breathe sometimes.

The main headline isn’t about Harry and Draco relaxes slightly. None of the other stories on the front page concern him, either. Draco’s not sure he can take another day of waiting; he decides to send Harry an owl after he’s done here, a brief note just to say that he saw the aftermath of the raid and he hopes that Harry is recovering well.

He’s about to set aside the paper when a small photo near the bottom of the page catches his eyes. For a few moments, Draco stares at it, unable to believe what he’s seeing.

It’s a close-up picture of his soulmate mark. A Snitch with a missing wing.

No, Draco realises with start. It’s Harry’s mark. There’s a brief paragraph beneath it, asking that the witch or wizard with the matching mark go to Saint Mungo’s immediately to speak with a Healer Pearson. _Extremely Urgent._

Draco startles when he hears Susannah step through the door behind him. He didn’t hear her come up the stairs. She’s holding a tray with a teapot and a mug.

“I thought you could use some spearmint tea,” she says, setting the tray down on the table. She reaches out to grip Draco’s wrist tightly when she notices his stunned expression. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

He hands her the newspaper and points to the photograph, unable to speak. Susannah scans the words with a cry of dismay.

“Yours?” she asks. When Draco nods, she pulls him into a tight hug. “Go, Draco. Use our Floo in the storeroom. I’ll tell Naia.”

Draco still can’t make his voice work, but his legs, thankfully, aren’t paralyzed by the shock of seeing the photo. He leaves his satchel and runs down the stairs, through the stifling kitchen where Susannah’s husband is occupied with removing a row of brown loaves from the oven, and into the dim storeroom. He throws some Floo Powder into the fire while calling out the address for the hospital.

The Welcome Witch rushes over to steady him when he stumbles into the reception area, breathless and dizzy, and tries to lead him to a chair. Draco pulls his arm away, gasping out the name of the Healer from the newspaper. Her eyes widen and she directs him to the Spell Damage floor, practically shoving him towards the lifts.

The ride in the lift is interminable. The walk to the Healer’s office is a year’s journey and Draco isn’t sure if his legs or his heart are going to give out first. Finally, he arrives at the right door, both hot and shivering, and knocks.

“The photograph in the Prophet,” Draco chokes out when the door is opened by a witch in lime green robes. “The mark.”

The Healer sags with relief and guides him to an upholstered chair.

“May I see it, please?” she asks. She has a flat accent that Draco can’t pinpoint, maybe Canadian.

Draco unbuttons his shirt and slides it off his right shoulder, twisting sideways in the chair to show his back to the Healer. She exhales with a soft murmur of gratitude that Draco doesn’t quite catch.

“I need to cast a quick charm to authenticate the mark. I promised his family that I would confirm that it’s real,” she adds apologetically when Draco turns his head to give her an incredulous look. “They’re worried about impostors, which you’ll understand when I explain in a moment. There, all done. You can button your shirt now.”

“I already know it’s Harry,” Draco says, causing the Healer’s mouth to drop open in surprise. “Please, just tell me how he is. I’ve been going mad not knowing.” He clutches the front of his still-open shirt and squeezes his eyes closed.

Healer Pearson places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “He’s been cursed, but he’ll recover now that you’re here. He’s been unconscious since he was hit and we’ve been trying to figure out why our treatment isn’t working. After some research, we found a counter curse that’s amplified by the presence of the patient’s soulmate. You’ll just need to be in physical contact with him while we cast it and stay with him while it takes its course.”

“Oh, Merlin. Oh, thank Merlin.” Draco slumps forward and covers his face with his hands. Harry’s going to be okay. Draco can help him. He sits back up and begins to rebutton his shirt. “Can we go right now?”

“Certainly. He’s just down the hall. Two of his friends are sitting with him.”

 _Oh, shit._ Draco looks up at the Healer. She can’t be more than a decade older than him, and if she was in England during the war, she doesn’t seem to recognise him.

“They’re going to be upset. That it’s me.”

“Why is that?”

“I… My family was on the wrong side of the war,” Draco says. He hates himself a little for glossing over the story, for not stating his own role explicitly, but he _needs_ to get to Harry.

“Ah, I see. Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone interfere with the treatment of my patient,” Healer Pearson smiles grimly. “Ready?”

Draco follows her through the empty corridor to Harry’s room. _To Harry._ She knocks on the door, then steps into the room without waiting for a reply. “He’s here,” she says.

Draco doesn’t look to see who else is in the room. His eyes are immediately drawn to the bed where Harry lies unmoving, save for the rise and fall of his chest. Draco moves to his side without hesitation, as if the invisible connection between them has wrapped around Draco’s heart like a vine and coiled itself tightly to eliminate the distance between them.

“Harry,” he murmurs.

“No. It can’t possibly be him,” Draco hears Granger say. He glances over his shoulder to see her and an equally stunned Molly Weasley gaping at him. “Did you check?” She’s addressing the Healer, who frowns at having her competence questioned.

“Of course I did. The mark matches exactly, in appearance and location, and the charm confirmed that it’s authentic,” Healer Pearson says sternly. “And I’m going to tell you both, right now, that anyone who harasses or intimidates Mr—”

“Malfoy,” Draco says in response to her questioning look in his direction.

“Anyone who harasses Mr Malfoy,” she continues, “will be escorted from the room by security staff. His presence is vital for Mr Potter’s recovery, as you are well aware.”

Granger and Mrs Weasley look unhappy—the latter is flushed pink with outrage—but they return to their seats without another word.

The Healer conjures a stool for Draco to sit beside Harry and instructs him to take Harry’s hand. It’s warm and dry between Draco’s palms. He hears the Healer cast beside him, a long incantation that she’s apparently committed to memory in anticipation of Draco’s arrival. He watches Harry’s face, but there’s no immediate change.

“It will take a few hours for the counter curse to take effect. Just stay where you are and keep holding his hand,” she instructs him from someplace to Draco’s right.

“Okay.” He can’t look away from Harry, from his dark eyelashes and his dry lips. He nods when she tells him to use the call button if he needs anything. He hears the door open and close, and then he gives himself over to the emotions that he’s kept at bay for the past five days.

“Harry,” Draco whispers again as he leans forward, lifting the limp hand to press it against his cheek. “I’m here. Please don’t leave me now. We’re so close, love.” 

He allows the tears to come, body shaking with the rough, uneven breaths of his weeping. He presses his lips to the back of Harry’s hand, now salty wet, and wishes there was a way to send the anguish he feels through the place where their palms are aligned, so that Harry can _know_.

_I’m yours. I’ll never, never leave you. I want you so much._

When he’s calmer, he wipes his face with his handkerchief and straightens his stiff back with a grimace. Harry still hasn’t moved, but Draco thinks that the colour has returned to his face a bit. He gently squeezes Harry’s hand.

“Does he know?” Granger asks, low and quiet.

Draco forgot she was there. He shakes his head. Granger doesn’t speak again, but her question sends a cold gust of dread through him.

Harry’s going to know when he wakes up. He’s going to know that Draco is his soulmate.

 _Magic will bring two soulmates together._ Draco recalls his mother’s words with vague disgust. Of all the ways he thought that their bond would be revealed to Harry, a dangerous curse was not one of them. It’s certainly not the means he would have chosen, no matter how much he dreaded having to tell Harry himself one day. Maybe Draco shouldn’t be surprised that their unlikely pairing, their acrimonious and complicated history, would require something absurdly dramatic to reach its culmination.

He gazes down at Harry’s peaceful face. Draco wants badly to touch it, to cup Harry’s bearded cheek or run his fingers through the tangle of his hair. Granger and Mrs Weasley seem resolved not to leave Harry alone with him, so Draco settles for cradling Harry’s hand on the edge of the bed.

The rest of their vigil is held in silence, save for the regular visits from Healer Pearson to monitor the progress of the counter curse. It’s working, she informs them without elaboration. It’s enough to make Draco sag with relief, and he presses another kiss onto the back of Harry’s hand.

It’s late afternoon, Draco guesses, when the Healer casts the last diagnostic spell and tells him that the curse is lifted. Draco manages to look away from Harry long enough to whisper his thanks to her, and Mrs Weasley and Granger express their gratitude as well.

Healer Pearson looks apologetic.

“Mr Potter is going to sleep for several more hours, but I’m afraid that visiting hours are ending soon. I wish you could stay until he wakes up, but the Matron of the ward is quite strict about it. I expect he’ll be released tomorrow morning.”

Draco clings to Harry’s hand. Neither wild Erumpents nor the entire Weasley clan could drag him away, but he’d rather not tangle with security guards, who could call the Aurors if he refuses to leave. Exhaustion is weighing heavily on his body and he knows he’ll be able to sleep now that Harry’s recovery is assured.

“It’s okay.” Draco braces his hand on the bed and leans down gingerly to kiss Harry’s forehead. He hears Mrs Weasley click her tongue in disapproval, but he’s confident that she won’t say anything in the Healer’s presence. He lets his fingertips graze Harry’s cheek as before he steps away from the bed.

After shaking the Healer’s hand, Draco summons the courage to acknowledge Harry’s friends. Mrs Weasley looks away, but Granger nods. Draco reads sympathy in her expression, which surprises him. He hopes it’s because she empathises with having one’s soulmate cursed—Weasley is an Auror, too, Draco knows—and not because she expects that Harry will reject him shortly.

Draco slips out the door, through the ward, and down the lift to the Floo in the reception area. He hopes that someone will unward the fireplace at the bakery and let him through; he’s about to fall asleep on his feet and it’s a long walk back to Knockturn. He silently curses the Ministry for the exorbitant fees that have prevented him from getting another Apparition licence.

Harry is somewhere above him, still asleep, still oblivious to the revelation that awaits him when he regains consciousness. Draco hesitates in front of the Floo, feeling the now-familiar pull toward his soulmate. _Soon,_ he tells himself. Soon they’ll come crashing together again, one way or another. But now they both need to rest.

He reaches for the Floo Powder and calls out the address of the bakery.

**Tuesday, 24 May 2005**

It takes three days for Harry to show up at Draco’s door. They’re almost as agonizing as the five days he spent waiting for news of Harry’s condition. Draco was beginning to think that Harry’s friends were hiding the identity of his soulmate from him and convinced him to take a holiday abroad in order to keep them apart. Honestly, that might be preferable to Harry deliberately staying away.

For three days, Draco’s tormented himself imagining Harry’s reaction when he finds out. He’s lain awake at night thinking of the things Harry’s friends will say to convince him that Draco is unworthy to be his soulmate. For three days, Draco’s fought against the return of the self-loathing that almost defeated him during his first few months in Azkaban.

There’s hope now, Draco reminds himself, over and over. _Don’t give up._

Draco’s tidying up his room after dinner when the knock comes. He doesn’t consider, even for a second, that it could be anyone but Harry. It _has_ to be him.

It is. He’s wearing a soft, green jumper and his short beard is trimmed neatly, a delightful contrast to the wild waves on his head. Draco takes a moment to drink in the sight of him, hale and healthy, and resists the urge to wrap his arms around Harry and never let go.

“Hi.” Draco’s so nervous that his voice breaks.

Harry doesn’t reply. He’s staring at Draco as if seeing him for the first time, even after Draco steps back holds the door open. Harry finally takes the cue to come inside and breaks their eye contact with an uncomfortable shrug. He takes the wooden chair without being asked. Draco shuts the door and sits across from him on the bed, their knees only a few feet apart.

“How are you feeling? The Healer said—”

“Can we not… can we skip the small talk?” Harry blurts out. He braces his hands on his knees and looks at the floor between them for a moment. “The Healer said you knew. She said you already knew it was me when you came to her office.”

Draco nods. “I did.”

“How long?” Harry demands, his voice rough and low. “And how did you know?”

“The morning after the Battle of Hogwarts,” Draco says, forcing himself to look at Harry. “You took off your shirt so Madam Pomfrey could tend to you and I saw the mark on your shoulder.”

Harry is stunned, horrified.

“Seven years? _Seven years_ you’ve known?” He stands up and runs his hands through his hair. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Well, it wasn’t the time to do it, was it? I couldn’t very well march over to you in the Great Hall and announce it,” Draco says, struggling to stay calm. “Could you please sit back down?”

“Well why not later, then? Why not contact me?” Harry asks after lowering himself back into the chair. “It was kind of important, don’t you think?”

“Because I was _in jail_ , awaiting trial. The Aurors arrested me about thirty seconds after I saw your mark.” Draco swallows to get past the memory of that moment, when the combined shock of finding his soulmate and being pulled away from his mother under an _Incarcerous_ charm made his vision go dark around the edges. “I couldn’t possibly contact you after that.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because it would have been seen as trying to avoid punishment! It would be exploiting our connection for my own benefit,” Draco shouts. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Don’t think I didn’t consider doing it. I was terrified, absolutely terrified about going to Azkaban. But I decided that I needed to serve whatever punishment the Wizengamot ordered. I needed to admit responsibility for the things I did and do penance for them before I could ever think about telling you.”

“But you didn’t tell me,” Harry counters. “It’s been almost three years and we’ve spoken several times. I can’t believe you’ve known for seven years and you decided to keep it from me. Were you ever going to tell me?”

Draco doesn’t know how to answer. How does he put into words how much he’s wanted Harry, but felt safer keeping his distance? That he’s resented their connection at times as much as he grieved its impossibility?

Harry interprets Draco’s silence as an admission. “You weren’t going to tell me,” he says flatly, looking away when he sees Draco shake his head in denial. “You didn’t want me to be your soulmate. Do you still hate me a little, like you did at school? Were you hoping for a Pureblood girl from the Sacred Twenty-Eight to have your perfect heir?”

“No! For fuck’s sake, Potter! That’s not why I didn’t tell you! How could you think that? Of course I want you, you idiot, how could I not want _you_?” Draco cries.

“Because I’m famous? Popular?” Harry spits out.

Draco lets out a growl of exasperation and pushes himself off the bed to kneel in front of Harry. He doesn’t dare touch him right now, but he needs to be as close as Harry will allow. He looks up at Harry imploringly.

“Because you pulled me from the Fiendfyre, Harry. Because you always saw me for exactly what I was, from that day we met in Madam Malkin’s—a spoilt, nasty, bigoted brat—and yet you saved me anyways. Because you’re the most stupidly brave person I’ve ever known, and I’ve never once seen you back down from doing what you know is right. Even if that means risking your own life.” 

Harry is wide-eyed and still as a statue. Draco draws a shaky breath and continues, forcing out the words he wanted to say to Harry when he was in Saint Mungo’s.

“And that was before I’ve been able to get to know you these past few months. There’s so much more to you than your courage. There’s kindness and humour and integrity. And you’re bloody well fit and handsome.” Draco feels his face burning, but he knows he can’t stop now. “I _always_ wanted you these past seven years, Harry. I just didn’t think I deserved you. I _know_ I didn’t.”

“Maybe that’s not for you to decide,” Harry says quietly. His gaze is so intense that it’s a bit unnerving.

“What would you have said if I told you, even recently? How do you think you would have reacted?” Draco watches Harry’s face contort through several emotions. “That was a rhetorical question. Please don’t answer it.”

Harry’s expression relaxes into a soft smile and he shakes his head. “I was going to say that I don’t know how I would have reacted. I still don’t know how to react, beyond being upset that you’ve known for so long.”

Draco levers himself up and returns to the edge of the bed. Neither of them breaks the silence for a time. Draco looks past Harry’s shoulder, through the open dormer window where the overcast sky is darkening. He can feel Harry’s eyes on him, weighing Draco up much like he did when they were eleven. Draco was ridiculously overconfident then, a little princeling who had never before experienced the sting of rejection.

Sitting in his wretched bedsit across from Harry, after everything that’s happened in the past fourteen years, is utterly surreal. It’s certainly not the romantic denouement that Draco imagined when he was thirteen, but it could be worse. Harry’s here and he’s calm now that Draco’s explained why he kept his knowledge secret.

“I think I need some time,” Harry says, at last, “just to wrap my head around this. It’s… a lot.”

“I know it is.”

They both stand and Harry does an awkward shuffle when he can’t decide whether to move towards Draco or the door. Draco has to suppress a smile. Merlin, he’s already arse-over-tit for this man.

When Harry extends his hand, Draco clasps it between both of his own. They’re acknowledged soulmates now, for fuck’s sake, and Draco will be damned if he’ll shake Harry’s hand like a mere acquaintance or—heaven forbid—a business colleague. Harry allows the touch for a few seconds before pulling away.

“Okay. I’ll send an owl, I guess?” Harry says, stepping backwards toward the door. Draco can tell that he, too, feels the pull of their bond by the twist of his mouth as he moves away and the way his eyes stay locked on Draco.

“I’ll be here… when you’re ready to talk more.” Draco says gently. He wants Harry to know that he doesn’t expect anything more than that. “Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight... Draco.”

Harry reaches for the doorknob behind him and manages to slip out without turning away from Draco until he’s in the corridor. Draco listens to his footsteps on the bare wooden stairs before returning to his bed to stretch out on his stomach.

It’s done. Harry knows and he’s not disgusted or furious. Draco doesn’t even mind that the purpose of Harry’s visit was to demand some answers. He came to Draco willingly and it’s a start.

Draco sits up and swings his feet to the floor. He’s too restless to sleep and there’s no need to stay in his room for another evening now that he’s heard from Harry. He’ll take a walk to work off this nervous energy that’s been making him feel like he needs to scream.

He grabs his jumper and heads for the wide and noisy streets of Muggle London.

**Thursday, 26 May 2005**

Draco feels a flare of triumph when Harry’s owl is waiting on his windowsill when he returns from work. It’s only been two days since Harry’s visit, and his need to see Draco again so soon must have overpowered any lingering shock from the news. Draco coos at Harry’s barred owl as he detaches the letter from its leg, apologizing for his lack of owl treats. He’d happily buy the little creature a year’s supply of them, he’s so thrilled to hear from Harry.

The note is short, an invitation to take a walk together that evening. _To talk some more._ As if Harry felt the need to make sure Draco understood that they weren’t going to pick out china patterns or— _sweet Circe_ , the very thought makes Draco feel hot all over—fall into bed together. He sends the owl off with his reply and rattles around his room for the next hour like a Bludger trapped in its box.

Harry is waiting at the edge of Regent’s Park near the zoo, rocking on his heels near a park bench and watching for Draco. He’s not wearing a jacket despite the cool wind rustling the trees above them, and Draco wonders if he’s so nervous that he forgot to put one on. He pushes his own hands into his pockets and lets the breeze propel him towards Harry. 

Draco’s breath catches when their eyes meet; he wonders if it will always be like this, even on their hundredth or thousandth meeting. Harry’s shy smile when he sees Draco is a luminous arc of current to Draco’s chest, and he feels lit up from the inside.

“Hi,” Harry says. “I hope you didn’t have other plans. It was short notice, I know.”

“No, it’s fine. I didn’t have any plans for the evening,” Draco assures him. He’s relieved that Harry doesn’t try to shake his hand again. Draco might’ve been just exasperated enough to try to hug him if he had.

Harry’s still wobbling in place, uncertain about what to do next, so Draco gestures to the path that circles the park. They set off, side by side, careful to keep a bit of space between their swinging arms. The path isn’t crowded, but there are enough people that he and Harry will have to be mindful of what they say. Draco waits until they pass a couple walking a pair of unruly Dalmatians—which makes Harry huff a soft laugh, for some reason—before speaking.

“You never answered my question the other night. How are you feeling?” Draco asks.

“Oh, fine now. I was a bit sore when I woke up, but they sent me home the next morning. I’m off work until Saturday because I had a concussion, too. Going a bit stir crazy at home these past few days, if I’m honest, but otherwise perfectly sound in mind and body,” Harry says with a sheepish smile, as if he knows he should be secretly enjoying this unscheduled holiday, but can’t.

Draco wonders if Harry’s been injured in the line of duty before. He banishes the thought as quickly as he can, before it leads to anxiety about the future. It’s almost inevitable that Harry will be hurt again given the dangerousness of his profession. Not to mention his unfailing impulse to shield others from harm. Draco shivers in the wind.

“Have you ever been to the zoo?” Harry asks, tilting his head toward the buildings that are just visible through the trees to their left. Draco shakes his head. “I’ve brought Teddy here a few times. He’s only just stopped demanding to know why the Komodo dragons don’t have wings.”

Draco laughs. Harry must mean little Teddy Lupin, who he knows from the papers is Harry’s godson. He can only imagine how bittersweet the relationship must be for Harry, but a quick glance at his expression shows only happiness at the thought of the boy. They must be close. Draco is reminded of how little he knows of Harry’s life. And that he occupies only a small, isolated corner of it right now.

“I hope he wasn’t too disappointed,” Draco replies. “I always thought that unicorns should be purple for some reason, when I was about three or four years old. My poor mother had to listen to a tirade whenever I saw a picture of one. I was so adamant about it that she teased me relentlessly when I wrote to her about studying unicorns in Care of Magical Creatures.”

Harry grins at the anecdote and launches into a story about Teddy trying to persuade Andromeda to give him a pet Niffler for Christmas one year by saying that it would earn its keep by finding stray Knuts in the house and garden. Draco is happy to have a topic of conversation that Harry enjoys, and he asks more questions about Teddy and Andromeda. Harry sees them every weekend, Draco learns, usually at their cottage in Cornwall, but occasionally in London for an outing. He also tells Draco, as if he feels the need for full disclosure on the subject, that he pays for Teddy’s tuition at his primary school. Draco shrugs off this piece of information and reassures Harry that he would never resent the children who are receiving a better education than the ones in Knockturn Alley. He’s genuinely glad that Teddy is well and thriving.

They’ve reached the side of the park by the lake and they stop to watch the wind-ruffled water for a moment. The sun is behind the trees now and the water looks black in contrast with the pale sky and vivid green of the new leaves.

“So, now what?” Harry asks without taking his eyes off the lake.

“I don’t mind walking some more. It’s not dark yet. Or we could get some coffee.”

“I didn’t mean right _now_ ,” Harry says, lifting his shoulders with something between a shrug and a squirm of discomfort. “I mean… with us. I really don’t know what I’m doing. At all.”

“That’s all right. I don’t either. We can just do _this_. Just talk and get to know each other. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that right now, Harry.” 

Harry releases a gusty exhale and relaxes his shoulders. “Okay. That sounds good.”

They finish their circuit around the park, discussing the plans for the Knockturn school and Naia’s excitement about her Hogwarts letter. They have to pause their conversation several times when there are Muggles close enough to hear, but Draco doesn’t mind. During the silence, he savours the wonder and gladness that’s buoying his heart. It’s only a stroll together in a London park, certainly nothing wildly romantic or intimate, but Draco feels like he might start floating above the pavement at any moment.

When they reach the place where they met, Harry assumes that they’ll continue together to the Apparition Point across the street. Draco stops him with a gentle hand on his arm and tells Harry that he doesn’t have an Apparition licence and he’s going to walk home. Harry stutters an apology, then offers to Side-Along Draco to the Apparition Point closest to Knockturn Alley.

“It’s getting dark. And a bit cold,” he says, as if Draco was the one who showed up without a jumper or jacket. Draco is endlessly charmed by his concern and accepts his offer, if only to be with Harry for a few more minutes. The warm grip of Harry’s hand around his wrist is well worth the unpleasant lurch of Apparition.

They say their goodnights outside the hidden entrance to Knockturn. Harry leans against the grimy bricks, as if he doesn’t intend to leave just yet.

“Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?” he asks. It’s too dark to see his face well, but he sounds more tentative than Draco ever imagined Harry Potter could be.

 _My fearless lion_ , Draco thinks.

He can’t resist any longer. He steps forward and carefully pulls Harry into his arms. He only allows himself a moment to feel Harry’s solid chest against his, the roughness of Harry’s beard brushing his cheek, before he gives Harry a quick squeeze and releases him.

“Yes, I would like that.” Draco can feel a smile on his face as wide as the open sky. “I’d like that very much.”

**Friday, 27 May 2005**

Draco could hardly focus on his work all day, leaving multiple blots of ink in his ledger when his mind wandered in the direction of his plans for the evening, but a sense of calm comes over him as soon as he sees Harry walking toward him on Charing Cross Road. He looks so stylish and fit in his jeans and leather jacket that Draco has to stop himself from staring. And he’s _here_ and smiling at Draco—nervously, but smiling nonetheless. It feels right and beautiful, like a flower opening in the morning sunshine, just as it’s meant to.

They make their way to the restaurant that Harry chose, a bistro that’s just noisy and well-lit enough not to be overtly romantic. Draco is grateful that Harry didn’t opt for something expensive. He orders roasted chicken with mash, which is one of Harry’s favourites, apparently. Draco’s mouth is already watering at the thought of it.

Other than a few silent spells when the conversation lags, they chat easily about their days and some of the more mundane details of their lives. Harry has a flat by himself, he tells Draco, but he still owns Grimmauld Place and thinks about fixing it up someday when he wants more space. Draco relates his first intrepid adventure in a Muggle grocery store, having been advised to try it by a neighbour in his boarding house. It makes Harry laugh to hear that Draco was so overwhelmed that he pushed his trolley around for an hour before leaving with only some apples and a tin of soup that he didn’t know how to open.

Though the restaurant is bustling, Draco feels like they’re cocooned in their own little world by Harry’s discreet Muffling Charm. The meal passes so quickly that he almost resents the efficiency of the kitchen. The food is excellent and Draco savours each gravy-laden bite with a happy hum that seems to please Harry.

By unspoken agreement, they both avoid any serious subjects while they eat. Then Harry’s expression turns sombre after the waiter takes their empty plates.

“We could have been doing this years ago. I’m not mad anymore that you didn’t tell me sooner,” he rushes to reassure Draco. “I understand why you didn’t. I just worry that we’ve lost time.”

“We’re only twenty-four, Harry. We have plenty of time.”

“It’s just… these past few years I’ve seen most of my friends pair off and get married. And they’re _happy,_ so incredibly happy together. Just knowing that I could have found you sooner makes me a little sad.”

Harry looks so wistful that Draco almost wishes he’d thrown caution to the wind and contacted Harry after he was released from Azkaban. It would have been a disaster, he reminds himself, given the broken and bitter person he was three years ago. He’s found his place in the world now. Draco wouldn’t have wanted Harry to see him as he was then, still consumed by his own pain and unhappiness.

“It wasn’t the right time,” Draco says, reaching across the table to lay his hand over Harry’s, as cautiously as if he were soothing a fretting child. “You can’t rush these things. You have to let them take their own course. There’s a reason why people don’t actively try to find their soulmates.”

“By putting a picture of their soulmate mark on the front page of the newspaper, for example?” Harry laughs.

“Exactly. If it’s not the right time, it could go very badly. They might be complete strangers or their lives may be incompatible at that point. It’s better to be patient and wait until they’re drawn together naturally.”

“Is that what happened with us?” Harry asks, cocking his head with an amused smile.

“Of course. Didn’t you notice that we’ve been seeing each other more and more frequently these past few months? Past few years, really. It wasn’t a coincidence that we ran into each other at the bookstore, and it wasn’t a random whim that made you come to my flat that first time when you could have just owled me about the school. Not to mention the counter curse you needed, the only one that would work, required the presence of your soulmate. That wasn’t happenstance.”

“Oh,” Harry says. His eyes widen with understanding. “Oh, wow.”

Draco squeezes his hand, then releases it when he sees the waiter returning with the bill.

They agree to walk off their dinners for a while. The cool spring air is refreshing after the crowded restaurant and the city feels hushed at night, despite the Friday evening crowds milling around the pavements and the blare of the traffic. Harry puts his hand on the small of Draco’s back when he gets jostled in the zebra crossing by someone walking in the opposite direction.

“You know, when I first learnt about soulmates, I wasn’t happy about it at all,” Harry says when they reach a quieter block. “I had very little control of my life when I was a teenager and I hated the idea of yet another choice being taken away from me.”

“That’s understandable,” Draco murmurs. He can still feel the warm press of Harry’s palm on his back. They pass the splashing fountains of Trafalgar Square and continue toward the river.

“And then I thought it might be Ginny and I felt better about it.” Harry turns his head to give Draco an apologetic smile. “We were both disappointed when she got her mark when she turned seventeen and it didn’t match mine. We’re perfectly happy now as friends—almost siblings, really, given how close I am to her family. She hasn’t found her soulmate yet, but at least she can be sure that it won’t be more shocking than mine.”

Harry laughs as he says it, but Draco can’t help but notice that he hasn’t brought up his surrogate family’s reaction to last weekend’s revelation. They’re not going to talk about that yet, it seems. Draco tells himself to enjoy this time with Harry, to treasure every confidence shared and every look that passes between them. There’ll be time to worry about the ramifications of their bond on some other day.

Harry leads them into the gardens along the river. Draco can smell the water—which is as foul as all urban rivers, if the memories from his childhood travels can be trusted—but the view is blocked by a busy street. It’s tranquil and dim here, and he wonders if Harry wanted to get away from the crowds for a little while. They walk down the wide path in silence for a few minutes.

“Do you…” Harry begins. He stops walking and turns to face Draco before trying again. “Are you okay that it’s me? I mean, there’s going to be a lot of, er, attention when word gets out. I know it’s going to turn your life upside down for a while.”

“Yes, Harry, I’m more than _okay_ with you being my soulmate, as I believe I made abundantly and embarrassingly clear when you came to see me on Tuesday.” Draco closes his eyes, unsure even now how he mustered the nerve to say those things, on his knees, to Harry. “As for the rest, we’ll just have to take it as it—”

Draco feels a rough hand on his jaw and the warm press of Harry’s lips on his. It’s so abrupt that he freezes in surprise, and so brief that Harry has pulled away and taken a step back by the time Draco can react. He opens his eyes and sees Harry’s appalled expression.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Harry says. “I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why I did that.”

“It’s all right. Harry,” Draco laughs, “it’s fine. Come here. I’m just going to hug you, don’t worry.”

Harry meets him halfway and they wrap their arms around one another. “I’m not worried,” he whispers in Draco’s ear. “I think you’re pretty amazing, too. For the record.”

Draco holds him a little more tightly, inhaling the mingled scents of Harry’s hair and aftershave and leather jacket. _This is their moment,_ the wondrous moment that his mother described. Draco bows his head into the nape of Harry’s neck and lets the emotions wash over him: gratitude, relief, and so much happiness. If he’d only known, in his darkest days, that he would have this, he would have been able to bear it so much better. It would have been a beacon in the storm, reassuring him that a safe harbour was near.

He moves to pull away, but Harry doesn’t release him completely. What he wants is written clearly in his eyes, only inches away from Draco’s.

Draco draws a breath and closes the distance between them before Harry can change his mind. It’s a chaste kiss, a careful interlocking of lips with lips, but the sensation of Harry’s warm mouth on his sends a molten rush of desire through Draco’s core. He has to end it before he’s turned to ash... or is tempted to push his hands into Harry’s hair and snog him senseless. He releases Harry with an unsteady step backwards.

“Fucking hell,” Harry says hoarsely, with a weak huff of laughter. “Oh, my god.”

“Uh, huh,” Draco agrees. He’s panting slightly.

“That was… unexpected.”

“It certainly was. _Merlin_.”

They both break into bashful grins at the same moment and Draco is relieved that Harry’s not going to panic or withdraw. Then his senses, which were all attuned to Harry, become aware of his surroundings again. The whoosh of the cars and lorries, the damp grass and acrid river smells, the glow of the street lamps and the dim shapes of the other people in the garden. Draco takes a deep breath to centre himself.

“Shall we head back?” he asks.

“Okay. Would you like to walk or Apparate? There’s an Apparition Point around the corner.”

“Walk, if you don’t mind. It’s still early.”

“Yes, let’s walk,” Harry agrees, stepping closer to brush his fingers over the back of Draco’s hand. “You’re right. We do have plenty of time.”

**Saturday, 28 May 2005**

“Draco.”

He’s looking out the window, adrift among the memories of the walk home with Harry last night. Their hands brushing as they squeezed through the clusters of people waiting outside restaurants. The shy smiles exchanged in lieu of conversation. The long embrace that ended their evening together and the promises breathed into each others’ ears to see each other again soon. Very soon.

“Draco!” Naia says again. She’s holding out the piece of parchment upon which she’s copied out her grammar exercises.

“Sorry,” Draco smiles. He takes the parchment and pulls a quill from his satchel to mark it. There probably won’t be any mistakes. “Start on the maths next. We’ll go through the practice problems together after you read the lesson.”

Draco allows his mind to wander again while Naia is bent over her textbook. He managed to dodge Susannah’s questions earlier, but it’s going to be impossible to hide his happiness for long. He’s having a hard enough time keeping his expression blank in front of Naia, who likely doesn’t know the full reason for Draco’s abrupt departure last Saturday.

He tries to temper the euphoria bubbling inside him with a dose of reality. He and Harry will have more than the usual share of trials ahead, and Draco forces himself not to recoil from the thought of them. He’ll have to write to his mother soon; it wouldn’t do to have her hear about this from someone else. Draco will have to face the daunting task of integrating himself into Harry’s life, which will mean overcoming the inevitable disapproval of Harry’s friends and family. Not to mention his Auror colleagues. Merlin, it’s going to be a shitshow when the news gets out.

Draco is ready to offer apologies to whoever is willing to hear them—not only for the sake of his and Harry’s relationship, but because he truly feels that they are owed apologies for Draco’s bigoted words and reckless actions. But he worries that his sincere contrition won’t be enough, that their soulmate bond will wreak havoc on Harry’s personal and professional relationships. He worries about Andromeda and Teddy, in particular. Draco can’t imagine that his aunt would allow a former Death Eater and convicted felon, the son of the sister who shunned her, no less, to be part of her grandson’s life.

These sobering thoughts tether Draco’s mind to the task at hand for the remainder of Naia’s tutoring session. He follows her down the stairs to the bakery with a heavier heart.

Harry is standing in front of the till, exchanging some Sickles for a loaf of bread from Susannah. 

_Oh, for fuck’s sake._

“Hello,” Harry says, with a friendly smile for Naia. He’s in his Auror uniform, probably fresh off a patrol shift in Knockturn. “I hear you got your Hogwarts letter last week. Congratulations. Are you excited?”

Naia shifts closer to Draco and nods. Draco watches Harry stonily. Susannah’s sharp eyes are on him and Draco knows it won’t take much for her to make the connection. He silently wills Harry to take his bread and go.

“I also hear you’ve been working hard with a great tutor,” Harry adds, with a wink for Draco.

“Merlin _,_ _stop._ ” The words are out of Draco’s mouth before he can stop them. He feels his face turning pink and he attempts to glare at Harry. “Don’t you have someone to arrest? A Kneazle to rescue from a tree?”

Harry laughs shamelessly, delighted by Draco’s irritation. “Nope. I’m on my way home and I thought I’d pick up some bread. Thank you, madam.” He picks up the loaf and makes a slight bow toward Susannah.

He’s utterly ridiculous and Draco can’t be angry with him. He’s obviously as giddy as Draco was earlier.

Harry flashes one last smile at Draco before ducking out the door. The three of them are left in various states of shock—in the case of Naia and Susannah—and embarrassment.

“Mum, did _Harry Potter_ really just buy a loaf of our bread?” Naia asks.

“Yes, he did,” Susannah replies dazedly.

She looks up at Draco in amazement. His face still feels like he’s standing in front of one of the ovens and he regrets not slipping out the door as soon as he saw Harry here.

“Yours?” she asks, just as she did the day of the notice in the newspaper.

A wellspring of happiness opens in Draco’s chest, warm and irrepressible. He closes his eyes and lets it fill him, lets it wash away the pain and hopelessness of the past seven years. He feels reborn.

“Mine,” Draco agrees.

 _Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> The dates I chose for each of Draco’s encounters with Harry weren’t random. When I first thought about this story, I had an image in my head of the boys spiralling around each other in tighter and tighter circles until they were finally together. I wondered if a descending [Fibonacci sequence](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fibonacci_number) would work as the structure for the story (because nerd). It’s a mathematical sequence that is created, starting with the numbers 1 and 1, by adding the two previous numbers in the sequence together to get the next one. It occurs in the natural world in the way sunflower seeds spiral outward from the centre of the flower, the arrangement of the leaves of some plants around the stem, and pinecones. When the Fibonacci sequence is drawn using increasingly larger squares connected with a curved line, it forms a spiral shape.
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
> [Image from Wikipedia Commons]
> 
> Here are the dates from the story and the number of days between them, a descending Fibonacci sequence:
> 
>  **Starting 2 May 1998 (Battle of Hogwarts):**  
>  987 days to Saturday, 13 January 2001  
> 610 days to Sunday, 15 September 2002  
> 377 days to Saturday, 27 September 2003  
> 233 days to Monday, 17 May 2004  
> 144 days to Friday, 8 October 2004  
> 89 days to Wednesday, 5 January 2005  
> 55 days to Tuesday, 1 March 2005  
> 34 days to Monday, 4 April 2005  
> 21 days to Monday, 25 April 2005  
> 13 days to Sunday, 8 May 2005  
> 8 days to Monday, 16 May 2005  
> 5 days to Saturday, 21 May 2005  
> 3 days to Tuesday, 24 May 2005  
> 2 days to Thursday, 26 May 2005  
> 1 day to Friday, 27 May 2005  
> 1 day to Saturday, 28 May 2005
> 
> A sequel is planned, tentatively titled “Riptide.”
> 
> Thank you for reading! Come say hello on [Tumblr](https://xanthippe74.tumblr.com/).


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